


An Eye for an Eye

by Blissymbolics



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Anesthesia, Canon Compliant, Eye Trauma, Fluff, Injury, Kid Fic, M/M, Nostalgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:34:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23437021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blissymbolics/pseuds/Blissymbolics
Summary: The next thing Richie knows, Eddie’s socked foot is colliding with the left side of his face.He smiles into the attack, but then with a sickening crack, he feels the left lens of his glasses shatter under Eddie’s heel, the glazed surface caving in under the force.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 13
Kudos: 319





	An Eye for an Eye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samansucks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samansucks/gifts).



> So this is a little tangent story within my other fic Wrong Number, but it's not necessary to read that first. Enjoy!

**March, 1990**

“Hey, Eds, you think my parents will let me get a hammock in here?”

Eddie looks up from the homework he was barely pretending to work on.

“No. Where would you even hang it?”

“I can clear out that corner and put some hooks in the wall.”

Richie points to the corner of his bedroom that currently houses his laundry basket, a collection of fake swords, and the guitar that he begged for but never plays. Not yet, anyway. He’ll get around to it soon.

“Don’t you know anything about support beams? The hooks’ll tear right out. You’ll wind up on the floor crying over your broken ass.”

Richie stifles a laugh as he lowers himself onto his stomach, propping his chin on his crossed arms, the carpet beneath him slightly itchy from too much starch.

“What about the ones that hang from the ceiling? Y’know, like that woven one with all the strings that Amy C. has on her porch?”

“Those things are death traps. You’ll get one of the strings tangled around your neck and die hanging like two inches off the ground. That the way you want to go?

Richie squints at him, accusingly.

“You never like it when I get cool shit.”

Eddie returns his squinty glare.

“Why do you even want a hammock? Just use the one at the clubhouse.”

“You mean the clubhouse that’s currently buried under a metric ton of mud? Besides, I only own 14.2% of that one. That’s my timeshare hammock. I want a year-long one. A perennial hammock. 

“Then have fun blowing your allowance on some weird stringy alien pod.”

“I already blew my allowance hiring that plumber to help your mom out. He should be working on her pipes right now.”

The next thing Richie knows, Eddie’s socked foot is colliding with the left side of his face.

He smiles into the attack, but then with a sickening crack, he feels the left lens of his glasses shatter under Eddie’s heel, the glazed surface caving in under the force.

A second later, he’s screaming the loudest “fuck” his lungs can handle. It rings in his eardrums, wringing out his throat as sharp, inhumane agony shoots from his left eye to every nerve in his brain. He quickly pulls the frames off his face before rolling to his side, confused panic overriding his instinct to keep screaming.

“Shit!” Eddie shouts, scrambling over. “Are you okay?”

Richie wants to spit back something sarcastic, but all the air is catching in his throat.

There’s pain. And shock. Both his eyes are shut tight, and on impulse, he reaches up to the source of the pain.

“No, don’t touch it!” Eddie shouts, gripping his arm to stop its ascent.

Richie cautiously opens his intact eye, which is so full of tears he can barely see Eddie anyway.

“You have to leave it in!” Eddie shouts, his voice cracking like bad static. “Leave it in! I’m calling 911!”

Next thing he knows, Eddie is dashing from his line of sight. The last Richie sees of him is his green shirt darting from the doorway.

Amidst the abject agony, he registers a confusing sense of abandonment. A fear of being left alone. He curls his knees close to his chest, his brain a medley of conflicting signals.

What’s confusing is that after the initial sharp, excruciating entry, it doesn’t actually feel that bad. Worse than most things, but less than others. Or maybe that’s just the adrenaline. And the shock. Or maybe he hit his head? He’s had several concussions in his life. Three, in fact. The first from falling off his bike, the second from tripping and hitting his head on a water fountain, and the third from daring Eddie to jump off the swings with him as high as they could go. Eddie chickened out of course. The little shit.

Rationally, he knows that he can’t have a concussion. Or maybe he does. If Eddie’s foot was strong enough to shatter eight millimeters of glass, then maybe the force was strong enough to knock something loose in his brain. All he knows is that there’s blood trickling down from the corner of his eye, and something very sharp currently embedded in the thin skin of his lid.

And it hurts. It really fucking hurts. Sharp. Pulsing. Stinging. Like the time he got a piece of Plexiglas wedged in his palm, but a thousand times worse. Like the splinter in his thumb that he never took out and it dissolved under his skin, leaving behind a brown stain that took over a year to fade.

It hurts. He feels like he might throw up. Or black out. And it’s taking every shred of self-control not to yank the shard out right now. And why shouldn’t he? Sure, in first aid class they said to leave stuff in, but that’s just to prevent bleeding, right? It’s not like he’s going to die of blood loss from his eyelid. There aren’t any arteries there. Or are there? Either way, his hands are itching to pull it out. But Eddie told him not to.

He hears footsteps running up the stairs. Then Eddie is back in his room, and Richie hears his voice crouching above him.

“They said the ambulance should be here soon. Like six minutes. They told me to just leave you like this.”

Richie scrambles for something to say. Something funny. Something snarky. That’s his job. An impaled eye is no excuse to take a day off.

He mentally cycles through several incoherent comebacks, but then he hears Eddie sniffling above him.

Hesitantly, he opens his right eye, wincing as the movement causes him to involuntarily squeeze his left.

Eddie’s crying. Hard. Snot running down his nose, tear tracks staining his cheeks. Richie panics, and does the only this he can think of. He puts on a smile that probably makes him look completely deranged.

“Hey, what’s with the waterworks?”

It’s ironic, see? ‘Cause he’s the one currently oozing tears from one eye and blood from the other.

“I’m sorry. I’m– so, sorry.” Eddie chokes on the apology, sucking snot back up into his nose, gasping between words.

“It was an accident. It’s okay.” Richie’s genuinely surprised by how calm his voice sounds. He wonders if that’s the shock, or if he’s just an impressively chill person.

“You have a piece of glass in your fucking eye. It’s not okay,” Eddie says with a hint of frustration, as if he were annoyed by Richie’s implication that this wasn’t the literal end of the world.

“They’ll get it out. It’ll be fine,” Richie replies, placidly.

Suddenly, primal terror courses through him as it dawns on him that he might not be fine.

He might never see out of his left eye again. It might have to be removed. Then his already shitty vision will be reduced by half. And then he thinks the dumbest possible thought in the history of dumb thoughts:

Will Eddie think he’s ugly with only one eye?

These thoughts come rapidly and hit him like a quarry rock. His numbness vindictively resides. He wants some morphine. He wants whatever his sister got when she had her wisdom teeth removed. He wants to tap out for a while. Tap out of consciousness, out of thinking. He wants to wake up in the hospital with everything in between whited out.

Eddie’s still crying, but Richie can’t seem to get anymore words past his throat.

He’s not mad at Eddie, but he’s not sure why. Maybe that’ll come later. Maybe after all this is said and done, he’ll hate Eddie. Never want to talk to him again. But the thought of that is almost worse than losing an eye.

Before his thoughts can spiral any further, he hears the faint sound of a wailing siren. It gradually draws closer, and the relief of imminent rescue gifts him with another wave of indifference.

“I’ll go down and get them,” Eddie says, rising back to his feet. “I’m so sorry,” he sobs one last time before darting back out the door and down the stairs.

The rest passes in a blur. Richie wonders if he drifted off at some point, but that can’t be right since he seems to remember everything, even if it feels like he’s a coma patient in one of those horror stories. The ones where they can see, hear, and feel everything, but are powerless to move or speak.

One of the medics crouches down low and asks if he can walk. He tries, but as soon as they get him sitting upright, a hurricane of dizziness sends his head spinning and he goes limp in the man's arms. So Medic #1 wraps his arms around his chest as Medic #2 grabs his legs, and Richie’s almost offended by how effortlessly they manage to carry him down the stairs and onto a waiting stretcher.

“Pain on a level of 1 to 10?” Medic #1 asks after they load him into the ambulance.

Richie tries to think about it. It’s painful, yes, but comparatively, is it really that bad? That toothache he got two years ago was a lot worse, although that was partially his own fault since he hid it from his parents until it got infected because he was so scared his dad would be angry at him for not brushing.

He’s pretty sure the cut on his hand hurt worse than this. The one Bill gave him as a nice party favor.

‘Really, the palm? The fucking palm? Where all the nerve endings are?’ Eddie complained the next day after disinfecting and rebinding it for the six hundredth time. Richie shrugged, made a joke about jerking off, then clenched his teeth tight as Eddie grabbed his hand and poured evermore saline solution over the open wound.

They both healed just fine though. No infections, no stitches required. He can only hope he’ll be so lucky this time around.

“Richie, can you hear me? Scale of 1 to 10?”

Oh right, he forgot about that.

He thinks on it a second longer, then answers with a respectable “6.” It’s more like a 7.5, but he doesn’t want them to think he’s a wuss.

The rest of the ambulance ride passes in a blur as he tries to focus on the sound of Eddie’s voice. Eddie’s answering all their questions for him. His age, his parents, where to contact them, describing the scene of the crime. He starts talking about Richie’s various concussions and other medical mishaps. His astigmatism and all the ear infections he got as a kid. Eddie must know he’s rambling, but Richie likes it, and the medics make no move to shut him up.

After either an eternity or three minutes, they arrive at the hospital, at which point it hits Richie that he really can’t see for shit.

Everything is blurry. The posters in the hallway, the faces of the nurses, even the ceiling lights are just vague patches of yellow with a metallic outline. He keeps reminding himself that his right eye is still intact. He’ll get new glasses. He’ll see everything again, even if his depth perception is permanently fucked.

No, this is temporary. He’ll be fine. He survived the killer clown and the worst injury he got out of it was a friendly slice on his palm. This is nothing. Stuff like this must happen all the time. And if he ends up needing a glass eye, at least it’ll be a cool party trick.

They give him anesthesia. At some point he hears his dad’s voice, feels a hand carding through his hair. He looks around for the outline of Eddie’s green shirt, and spots him standing too far away. He’s suddenly anxious that he’ll never see Eddie’s face in proper detail ever again. Except he can’t feel physical anxiety. The drugs won’t allow it. Instead it’s just a hypothetical worry. Something to wake up to and deal with later.

Splotchy darkness seeps around him.

Then he sees light again. Still vague. Still undefined. But he’s slightly aware of the fact that he must be conscious now.

Why was he unconscious to begin with? What’s he doing in the hospital? He doesn’t really have the energy to look around, but that feels more like laziness than inability.

He’s also aware that he feels really, really good. His arms are light and his toes feel warm. There are words coming out of his mouth, but they must be getting scrambled because they sound like gibberish when they make their way back to his ears.

He drifts off again, maybe sleeping, maybe just taking some time to relax inside his own head. But he doesn’t get to enjoy the tranquility for long before he hears an unfamiliar man talking above him.

He tries to pry his eyes open, and panics for a second when only one complies. But he calms down when his dad’s face comes into focus. He’s leaning close to him, the end of his tie draping on the blanket over Richie’s chest.

“Did you hear what the doctor just said, son?”

Richie furrows in concentration. He recalls picking out and recognizing most of the words, but when stringing them together they don’t quite add up.

“He said your eye is fine. The glass didn’t hit your cornea. It should heal just fine and your vision shouldn’t be any worse.”

After a second of processing, Richie’s mouth curls into a smile.

Everything’s alright. He’s fine. All the worst case scenarios are ancient history.

This was nothing more than an annoying field trip. Another trip to the chop shop. Something to add to his lengthy resume of medical mishaps. No big deal. Everything’s great.

“Can’t say I’ve seen anything like this before.”

Richie turns his gaze to the other man looming over him. Silver glasses and half-grey hair.

“We occasionally get construction workers and such in here for accidents of the ocular nature, but this is the first time I ever even heard of someone getting impaled by their own glasses. You’re a medical marvel, kid. And your friend’s got a sturdy set of legs on him.”

“Is Eddie still here?”

To his surprise, the words come out coherent. Or maybe that’s just from his point of view. Maybe it was a string of gibberish.

But no, they must have been intelligible, because there’s a green blotch approaching from his right, coming to stand awkwardly at the side of his bed.

“Get closer, Eds, you look like a windshield wiper.”

Did that make sense? That made sense, right? Like when you turn the windshield wipers on and everything’s blurry? No wait, it’s more like looking through a foggy window. Yeah, in the winter when you blow on the windows. It’s like that. But on Eddie’s face.

Regardless, the doctor steps back so Eddie can move in closer, and now Richie can more or less make out all of his features. He’s not crying anymore. That’s a good sign. But he still looks miserable.

“What’s with you?” Richie asks.

“I almost blinded you, idiot.”

“I was already blind. Don’t sweat it.”

He brings his hand up to lightly pat Eddie’s cheek, but the trajectory’s off and it just grazes his chin before falling useless against his own chest.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Eddie says. “Seriously, anything. Just please don’t sue me.”

That elicits a chuckle from his dad.

“Relax. The judge wouldn’t side with me anyway. You’re too cute.”

Richie’s body seizes up, a sudden soberness filtering out the chemical tranquility.

No, he shouldn’t have said that. He fucked up. It just slipped out.

Sure, he calls Eddie cute to get a rise out of him all the time, but never in front of his dad. Or anyone, really. But it’s not that weird, right? Everyone calls Eddie cute. Richie’s parents call him cute behind his back all the time. It’s not weird of him to join in. It’s not a big deal. But that doesn’t deter his muscles from going stiff as his joints lock in place, his breezy smile and pleasant high doused with ice.

“You alright, son?” his dad asks, leaning over.

Richie suddenly feels like a caged animal. He tries to think of a line. A distraction. Something to write this off. But he comes up blank, so he just winces dramatically.

“Yeah, it just… it just hurts.”

“It should heal fast,” the doctor interjects. “It was a clean extraction, no complications. Just keep the gauze on, don’t rub at it, and you should be back in business in a few weeks. Sound good, sport?”

Richie nods, some of his panic subsiding.

They don’t know. Good. He didn’t blow his cover. It’s really not a big deal. People say weird shit on anesthesia all the time. His sister started trash talking half the school after she got her wisdom teeth out. Calling his best friend cute can hardly be called a slip up, especially when the whole damn town agrees with him.

No, it’s not a big deal. Just try to forget about it.

“You about ready to head out, son? It’d be nice to get you home and back in bed.”

Richie realizes that he is feeling a bit homesick, but on the other hand, he really doesn’t want to get up. It’s comfortable here. So unbelievably comfortable. Like waking up from the nicest summer afternoon nap with the sunlight hitting you through the window. He wants to burrow into the blankets and drift back into mid-consciousness, but his dad is already jiggling his shoulder insistently.

“Come on, up and at ‘em,” the doctor says, vindictively pushing a button on the side of his bed, causing it to raise him upwards and disrupt his carefully balanced comfort.

He groans in annoyance.

“Come on, don’t you want to get back home?” his dad says while rudely pulling away his blanket. “Your specks are still in your room, and the right half is still in one piece. You’ll need that lens if you want to get any TV watching done.”

Richie groans again as his dad maneuvers him into a waiting wheelchair.

“And Eddie offered to keep you company ’til you’re back on your feet again.”

Richie’s not even sure why he’s groaning at this point. Probably just to be dramatic. What else is new?

Eddie sits with him in the back of the car, and as soon as his dad starts the engine, he rolls down his window as far as it’ll go and sticks out his hand, moving it in waves along with the current of the wind as it tousles his hair into a gnarly mess.

He’s relieved that he’s not angry at Eddie yet. He’s not angry at all. And he hopes that feeling doesn’t go away as the anesthesia wears off. He never wants to be angry at Eddie, and he never wants Eddie to be angry at him. That’s a stupid thought. Of course he doesn’t. Who’d want to be angry with their best friend?

“Eds, you know I’m not mad, right?”

Richie squints to try to make out his expression across the measly three feet separating them.

From what he can make out, Eddie doesn’t seem convinced.

“Maybe not right now, but you might be later.”

“No, really, I promise, I’m not mad. You believe me, right? I can’t see your face good enough to tell.”

Before Eddie can respond, his dad speaks up from the front seat.

“Don’t worry, son, Eddie knows you’re not mad. I know you guys don’t have any brothers, but this is exactly the sort of thing me and my brothers got up to all the time. We used to use each other for BB gun practice. There was a dirt road where we used to joust with pipes on your granddad’s motorcycles. You come out stronger after sharing a little blood.”

Richie feels a small pulse in his hand, and he looks down at the white scar streaked across his palm like its own separate birth line. He suddenly remembers the intimacy he felt sharing his blood with his friends, the certainty that they were bonded for the rest of their lives. And he remembers sitting in the cafeteria a month later as Principal Massey lectured their entire grade on how they should never share their blood with each other. Apparently blood brotherhood was all the rage in the middle school crowd, and he warned them in no uncertain terms that it was a one-way ticket to AIDS, hepatitis, and a million other blood-borne ailments. Richie felt Eddie stiffen in the seat beside him, and he wanted so badly to reach under the table to take his hand and press their barely-healed wounds together.

He flexes his hand around the thin scar tissue, wondering if it will fade with time like most of his others. Will he have a mark on his eyelid to commemorate this day, or will it be imperceptible? Will it fade without any evidence like his skinned knees and bloody feet? Or will it stay forever like the wood whittling scars on his knuckles? He wants to know how much physical evidence he’ll carry with him as he grows up. Which marks will be permanent, and which will only exist in his memory and hospital records.

He stares back out the window, and it’s actually kind of nice without his glasses. It’s like looking at a moving painting. All the colors blending together and morphing into something peacefully abstract. It’ll probably be less appealing after the anesthesia wears off, but for now, he’s never been happier than to lazily share his gaze between the landscape out his window and the blur of Eddie’s face, all of it merging together into one vivid, unforgettable memory.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it!
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/blissymbolics1)


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